


Weave your hands through my hair, seek my face and hunt with me

by Lokuro



Series: Curse of Strahd Verse [6]
Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Goddesses, Goddesses of Barovia, Metaphysical Sex, Metaphysics, Relationship to Big and Complex to be comprehended by feeble human minds, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokuro/pseuds/Lokuro
Summary: The Seeker is the only left one from her sisters.Weak, alone and sick with corruption, she remembers their time together. The time when she was complete and whole...
Relationships: The Three Goddesses
Series: Curse of Strahd Verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802551
Kudos: 4





	Weave your hands through my hair, seek my face and hunt with me

—  _A short tale of The Weaver, The Seeker, and The Huntress_

The night was her favourite time of year. Her favourite state of mind. Her favourite shawl to wrap around the green shoulders — soft as old moss, wet and creamy upon her skin.

It was well after midnight and well before dawn that the Seeker wandered through her realm, undisturbed and majestic. The Woods around her lay still with heaviness and expectation. Her breath in the dead silence of the Woods was raspy; shallow pants, never enough. The air was getting thin, and she was lightheaded and translucent, gliding through her kingdom like a ghost. Fleeing.

As she shifted through the Woods, her hands graced the trees. The bark underneath her fingertips was grooved with shaded crevices, darker shadows strewed among lighter shadows, the colours of the night — so beautiful. The Seeker held out a hand to caress the mossy cover on the bark, yet gone was the softness, and the green coat was dry and crumbling, breaking into fine powder upon her touch. Instead of the sweet flavour of the green flesh, black liquid oozed between the cracks of the bark skin; it clung to her fingers, greedy like a wet mouth of an infant on the breast of its human mother. Sucking her dry. Nauseated, sickened to her stomach, she pulled her hand away, and a long tentacle stretched out from the pool of blackness connecting her to the dying tree. With disgust and rage, she ripped her hand away from the tarnished flesh, and her cry of revulsion cut through the silence like a knife through treacle. 

Yet the touch, disgusting as it was, brushed a sore spot on her soul. The ooze clung to her, a living-dying thing.  _ We are never alone, dear me. We are one and never parted, sisters.  _ The echo of a whisper of a promise still hung somewhere between the twisted tree branches. 

The slimy black ooze was so unlike the sweet stickiness of her sister. The sister, who liked decorating her hair with braids and spider silk, weaving beautiful gowns, and spinning intricate spells and soft silk bands to wind around her body in the moments of pleasure, to cover her in smooth, thick liquid. The Weaver's own skin was always damp and soft to the touch. Like putty, she could stretch thin and long, long, long. Just as her other sister was sharp and hard and unyielding.

She missed the dampness of the one and the fire of the other. The burning scratches and the bloody marks of the Hunteress' claws; the rough feeling of ragged leather and soft furs on naked skin as the Hunteress circled her in the strong arms, pinning her down. Bloodied demanding lips on her breasts, teasing and licking and covering her in blood and fire. With her hands everywhere and moans on her skin, the Hunteress was all tongue and fangs, licking, biting the tender flesh and then apologizing for the roughness with the gentlest of kisses. Her claws, too long for a caress, melted into blunt fingers when she claimed The Seeker as her own. She chuckled, huskily and raw, as she kissed her sister and plunged two fingers in deeply, curling them against her. How she enjoyed watching her frantic shivers, her hard breathing, her body shivering on the edge of bliss.

Somewhere along the lines, The Weaver would join in. Or was she always there? Her stroking was a perfect softness, gliding over the Seeker's skin, feeling her respond, rocking and swelling with her on a gentle wave. Her eight long fingers on eight chitinous limbs would climb into her like tiny spiders, nestling beside her sisters' sharp claws. The spider's feet were tickling and teasing, the smallest ones lost between the folds of her flesh. They stayed with her long after, wandering between the Woods of her hairs and the Hills of her skin, drowning in her and becoming her flesh after a while. The bigger ones teased her entrance with the hairy pedipalps as the Weaver would sink inside, long fingers reaching down to her very core, weaving the magic within, binding it in a tangled knot and leaving her leaking and dripping with it for days, years, centuries to come...

With the Wood's stillness around her, The Seeker missed the gentle gurgling in one ear and the sharp howling of the wind in the other ever so painfully. They should have joined like this more often and now she cursed their restraint. But it was hard to keep their essence from spilling when they bestowed their worship upon each other. Feeding and strengthening each other with their flesh and minds and feelings. They did not join often — too much, and you risked losing yourself. It was easy melting into each other when the boundaries of your Self blurred, and you started leaking into the soul of your sister. The thinner they stretched themselves to engulf the other two, the more porous their spirits became; the more they yearned to be filled. 

The Seeker sighed. Her back was pressed against the bark of a tree, her legs open wide, welcoming the night between her tights. The chill autumn wind was as gentle as her sisters' touch, but it was her own hands camped and strained, fingers blackened in goo that tried to reach deeper, to fill the hollowness between her legs. Yet her fingers scratched over dry skin, brittle and old, and the only wetness her frantic strokes produced was the sick, feverish sweat on her clammy skin and a single rivulet of something salty and bitter, slowly running down from her shut eyes onto the barren, scorched earth. 


End file.
